


totally and amazingly unbelievable

by jilliancares



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Smut, Voyeurism, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jilliancares/pseuds/jilliancares
Summary: Peter crashes at Wade's place waiting for him to get home, only he's having a wet dream when Wade returns.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 1159





	totally and amazingly unbelievable

It wasn’t an odd occurrence, for Peter to end up at Wade’s apartment after patrolling. Sure, most of the time, the two of them were already together. Peter could never figure out how, but Wade seemed to have some sort of sixth sense. As if spidey-sense was sensing _where Spidey was_ rather than any sort of danger presenting itself to Spider-Man.

Regardless, Wade had a knack for finding him, and it was thanks to this that they’d become friends in the first place. It was kind of hard not to, when you spent most nights in the company of the same person, cracking jokes with them and fighting crime with them and sometimes being saved from certain death by them.

In the beginning, Peter had always rejected Wade’s invitations to his apartment. He hadn’t known him well enough, he’d told himself. I can’t entirely trust him, he’d reasoned.

Eventually, he’d decided to allow himself the enjoyment — spending time patrolling with Wade was fun, sure, but it’d be nice to get to actually do _friend-like_ things with him. And that’s why Wade’s apartment was as familiar to him as his own, these days. They’d order a pizza and watch movies or play Mario Kart. They’d play pool on their phones while simultaneously watching a TV show. Wade even had a chess board that they’d sometimes play (admittedly missing a few pawns, so they’d use Hershey kisses instead) and you might not think it upon first glance, but Wade was actually a killer chess player.

They were good enough friends that sometimes they even hung out during the day. Peter might swing by on a day off from work or hang out with Wade before they even went out to patrol.

And sometimes, when they for some reason didn’t end up patrolling together, Peter would go back to Wade’s house to catch up on all the hanging out he’d missed out on.

Not so surprisingly, Wade wasn’t home. Peter hadn’t entirely expected him to be, because if he wasn’t out doing something important he probably would’ve been kicking criminal ass with Spider-Man. Still, Peter went ahead and made himself at home. He grabbed a Pop-Tart, pulled up Netflix (and clicked the Spidey icon. Wade had given him his login info ages ago), and collapsed on the couch, his mask tossed carelessly on the coffee table before him.

It’s been a good few months since he revealed his identity to Wade. After enough time, it just felt ridiculous that he hadn’t done so already. Wade was his best friend, after all, and it wasn’t exactly fun to spend more time in his mask than out of it. Plus, he trusted Wade. His secret identity was there to protect him from his enemies, not his friends.

So.

(Wade had gone absolutely ballistic, when Peter had shown him. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. He’d just shown up one day, closed the curtains, and tossed his mask aside. Wade had screamed and covered his eyes, and Peter had snorted, and Wade had made fun of him for snorting. Peter had formally introduced himself and Wade had taken it upon himself to start complimenting every little thing about him.

“God, you have gorgeous lips, baby boy.”

“Wade, you’ve already seen my lips. We eat together all the time.”

“Yeah, but they’re even prettier when I can see your eyes. Give me your eyelashes.”

“Okay, I’m putting my mask back on.”

Wade had tackled him.)

Anyway.

Things were good. Peter wasn’t so lonely these days, and Wade was great. Peter could honestly say that his best nights were the ones he spent here.

Shortly after Peter had revealed his identity, Wade had become somewhat more civilized. Nowadays, he kept all his gun in one place, rather than scattered all over the apartment. And though his sink was often full of dishes, they weren’t all throughout the living room and his bedroom.

It was nice, ‘cause Peter was pretty sure that was a sign that he was happier these days, too. Happy enough to care about the environment he lived in, anyway.

It’s as Peter is thinking this, his Pop-Tart wrapper abandoned on the table and his head cushioned on one of the couch’s pillows, that he falls asleep, the TV droning on quietly in the background. Wade would be home eventually, and he’d probably wake Peter up rudely when he got here, dropping carelessly onto Peter’s legs and shoving an X-Box controller in front of his face, or something.

So Peter let himself drift.

The apartment is warm, because Wade can afford to heat the place and the heating actually works well, to boot. The couch smells like Wade, like gunpowder and the soap he uses and just that innate _Wade_ smell, like how everyone smells kind of like their home and their home smells kind of like them.

Maybe that’s why it happens. Peter is too comfortable, too sleepy, and thinking too much about Wade.

His dream takes a turn like they do somewhat regularly. In his dream, he’s still in Wade’s apartment, still lying on his couch. But Wade is there. He’s climbing through the window, and his mask is already off, which it never would’ve been. Wade always takes it off after he gets in the apartment.

But Wade’s smiling, seeing Peter, and for some reason, he has Peter’s webshooters. The next thing Peter knows, his hands are webbed to the couch, and he’s lying on his back, arching upward.

“Please,” he gasps, and Wade obliges. He tugs Peter’s pants down with his teeth, and his mouth is hot and wet around Peter, if somewhat stilted in his movements.

Outside of his dream, Peter’s laying on his stomach. He has one arm pillowed under his head, and his hips thrust idly into the couch cushions below him. His eyebrows are furrowed as he frowns, because his sleepy movements aren’t all that powerful, nor are they getting him anywhere near close to his release.

His chest is heaving and sweat prickles against his forehead. About every third stroke or so, he lets out a huff, and with about every other huff, he moans.

And sitting on the table directly before him, beside the abandoned Pop-Tart wrapper, is Deadpool.

Wade stares at Peter, utterly transfixed.

He’s come home to find Peter in his apartment before. He’s even come home to find Peter napping before, which usually warranted a good minute or two of watching him, simply because he looked so relaxed, so young, so at ease. There was none of that worry that sometimes lined his face, when he was fretting about the latest super-villain or upcoming essay or his constantly climbing rent. Gone were the typical frowns and the hardened glint in his eyes. Asleep, he was just Peter, not Spider-Man. And he looked so soft and adorable and Wade just had to take that in before he inevitably poked him in the forehead and asked if he would rather eat Chinese food or pizza for dinner.

Except tonight…

Tonight was different.

Because tonight, Wade strolled through the front door. He spotted the familiar mask on his living room table and grinned beneath his own mask, striding across the carpet carelessly and yet still silently, ready to take in that familiar adorable sleeping beauty.

And instead he’d been presented with _this_.

The frown was back. His eyes squeezed shut.

At first, Wade had thought it was a nightmare, and his heart had had exactly .2 seconds to explode inside his chest, his hand already darting toward the hero’s shoulder, when Peter had made that _sound_. And Wade’s entire body had stilled, his heart pounding for a completely different reason.

Frozen he’d stood, half-crouched with his hand still outstretched, as he’d stared at the beautiful specimen that was Peter Parker. Lounging contently on his couch, his mouth still open from the friggin’ _moan_ that’d just escaped it, and his hips thrusting languidly against the dip between the two cushions, searching frantically for the kind of satisfaction that a couch cushion just couldn’t give him.

And it was then then Wade had sunken onto the coffee table, his breath trapped somewhere in his chest. Then that he’d settled his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his fists, and he’d just fucking _stared_ at Peter, humping the couch and chasing his pleasure thanks to some sort of wet dream.

Not to be dramatic, but Wade would get up, lean out the window, and shoot the very first person he saw just for a glimpse inside Petey’s mind right about now.

And wow, what a dream it was.

It was obviously a dream in the way that dreams were always obvious, though only after you’d woken up. Like when real-life you really _really_ had to pee and dream you could only find doorless bathroom stalls or restrooms that people kept barging into, preventing you from doing your business.

If Peter could just have taken a moment to consider why Wade wasn’t doing the most effective job, he might’ve realized it was a dream. Because Wade was definitely more experienced than this, having been going down on Peter for God knew how long without managing to make him come.

“Wade,” Peter gasps, and Wade pulls off of Peter for what feels like the billionth time. He grins up at Peter, and Peter moans. He’s close, he knows he is, and Wade _isn’t getting him there_. He’s so teasing, so cruel, and never does it cross Peter’s mind to reach down and finish the job himself.

“Jesus, baby boy,” Wade murmurs.

The dream fades, but the arousal remains. Vaguely, Peter becomes aware of very real stimulation. And then he becomes aware of the fact that he’s moving his hips, and all at once he remembers that he’s in Wade’s apartment, on Wade’s couch, and he feels like a total creep.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and his eyes fly open as he realizes what exactly he’s been doing. Mortification floods through his body and he has a split second to debate grabbing his mask and pulling it on before Wade gets home, because he’s not sure if he can look Wade in the face after having dreamt what he just did.

But then his brain slows down for a second, and his eyes bother to take in his surroundings. He’s still laying on the couch, still propped on his arm, and he realizes that he’s staring at a pair of legs. Red and black legs, muscular legs, _Deadpool’s legs._

“Oh my God,” Peter blurts, pushing himself up in a split second and coming face to face with Wade. His mask is off, just like in Peter’s dream, and he’s staring at him similarly. “Oh my God,” Peter repeats.

Slowly, Wade grins. “Good dream?” he asks.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Peter whispers, burying his face in his hands and just — trying to evaporate. Or disintegrate. For the first time in his life, he prays for _crime_. To just hear the sound of sirens going by so he could have an excuse to dive out the window and maybe — just maybe — get hit by a car on the way.

He hears Wade stand, and then he feels the couch sink beside him. Wade’s considerably larger than he is, and the divot in the couch combined with his proximity to Peter has Peter’s body listing to the side, into Deadpool. Wade’s arm is already along the back of the couch, behind Peter.

“Sorry, baby boy,” Wade says. His voice sounds deeper than usual. Husky. Peter’s still staring at the hands pressed to his face, wondering when some generous god might do the favor of smiting him. “I would’ve woken you, but you were too darn _cute_. Humping my couch like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. Moaning like—"

Peter groans in embarrassment, trying to drown out his words.

“Yeah, like that!” Wade says cheerfully.

“I can’t believe that happened,” Peter whispers into his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Wade outright cackles. “ _Sorry_?” he exclaims. “Petey, that was the highlight of my _life_.”

Yeah, Peter definitely needs his mask. He definitely took for granted the security it provided him, the way it would hide his blush. The ability it gave him to disappear off the face of the earth and not have Deadpool showing up at his apartment the next day, concerned.

Slowly, Peter lets his hands drop to his lap. He realizes at once that he’s still hard, and he’s blushing more fiercely than ever. The TV’s still playing, and they’re both facing it, but Peter can’t concentrate for the life of him. He’s all too aware of the fact that he’s pressed against Wade’s side, and he wants to shift away, but he doesn’t want to draw any attention to himself.  
“So,” Wade says loudly, casually. _Too_ casually. “What were you dreaming about?”

“No,” Peter says immediately. “Not talking about it.”

“Come on!” Wade says. “Tell me! Was it some school friend?”

Peter frowns. “First of all, ew. That makes me sound like a high schooler.”

“Aren’t you?” Wade jokes, ragging on the fact that, okay, fine, Peter still can’t really grow a beard. Once, he was trying out a mustache, because that’s the only part of his face where hair actually grows without being patchy, and Wade had laughed so hard that he’d almost pissed himself, and Peter had stomped into Wade’s bathroom to shave it off.

“Shut up,” Peter says, because he’s twenty-four and would’ve graduated college already if he weren’t just a part-time student, both to avoid the tuition fees and to allow himself more time to work and be Spider-Man. “Second of all, I don’t have school friends.”

“Professor, then,” Wade presses. “Hot, kinky, student-teacher sex.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” Peter scoffs. “And no. Gross. They’re all old.”

“An actor,” Wade says. He’s staring at Peter now, and his arm is actively on Peter’s shoulders, no longer on the couch behind him.

Peter shakes his head.

“Superhero,” Wade guesses, and Peter’s a horrible liar. He shakes his head again, but Wade lights up as if he’s confirmed it. “Oh my God,” he says gleefully.

“Thor,” he guesses.

“No,” Peter says, and he scoots away from Wade, pressing his back against the other armrest.

“Cap,” Wade says.

“No,” Peter says again. “And I’m not telling you.”

“Iron Man.”

“ _Ew_ , no,” Peter says. “It wasn’t even a person. It was no one. It was a made-up person.”

“Oh? Which one was it, baby boy?”

“What?”

Wade’s getting closer. He’s on his knees, sitting between Peter’s ankles. Peter’s hands are still in his lap, because his dick just won’t get the memo.

“Which one is it? Not a person, or a made-up person?”

“Um.”

“Black Widow.”

Peter wrinkles his nose.

“You’re right. That’s like spider-on-spider incest.”

He’ll never guess, Peter decides. He’s just teasing him. He’s just being Deadpool, and it’s fine, he just needs to calm down, stop being so freaked out about it. Everyone has wet dreams. _Wade_ has wet dreams. Hell, Wade talks about sex all the time. Peter doesn’t need to feel so embarrassed.

“Me,” Wade says lecherously, obviously joking.

“No,” Peter says, but again, he’s a horrible liar. Wade’s face goes slack with disbelief, and Peter’s goes red with humiliation.

“You’re fucking with me,” Wade says.

“I didn’t even say anything!” Peter protests.

But Wade places his hands on Peter’s ankles, and it’s like his hands are live wires. Peter’s body goes rigid, his lungs decide to stop working, and his fingers curl into the couch beneath him, because holy fuck. Holy _fuck_.

“Holy fuck,” Wade says, and yeah, Peter feels that. And then Wade wraps his fingers around Peter’s ankles and _pulls_.

Peter slides down the length of the couch, feeling like his world’s turned upside down. He’s pressed flush against Wade, who’s in between his thighs now, staring down at him reverently.

“You were dreaming about me,” Wade says, and he’s staring down at Peter like he wants to swallow him whole.

Here’s the thing. Wade’s attraction to him maybe should’ve been obvious. But Peter could never tell if he was serious. He’ll flirt with anyone, and he comments on half the actors in all the shows they watch. Just because he may have flirted with Peter on occasion didn’t necessarily mean that he wanted anything to _happen_ with him.

But here they are. Wade, hovering over him, Peter, breathing like he just swung across the entirety of Manhattan.

“Yes,” Peter whispers, because Wade will know if he lies anyway. And if Peter’s right, this is about to have a good outcome anyway.

Wade’s bigger than him. Peter eats just as much as he does, but it goes right through him — his metabolism is too quick. He’s strong, but he’s lean. Not to mention, he looks minuscule next to Wade, despite the fact that he’s average for a guy.

And Peter’s not going to lie, he’s always been attracted to Wade’s size. The feeling of standing next to him and looking up (and up and _up_ ) at him always makes Peter’s breath catch in his throat. Not to mention his bulging muscles, and the way they feel around him whenever they hug, or whenever he’s hurt and Wade just picks him up and he’s surrounded by them.

Logically, Peter knows that he could break any hold Wade could manage to get him in. The muscles look nice, but they’re nothing compared to Peter’s strength. But the thought of Wade holding him down… the thought of being beneath him, feeling both vulnerable and protected…

He flushes, and Wade’s hands slide up his legs, squeeze his thighs, settle on his hips.

“What,” Wade says, and shakes his head. His throat must be dry, because the word catches on the way out. “What were you dreaming about?” he asks. And then, quieter, almost under his breath: _“On my couch."_

“Wade,” Peter says, both embarrassed and unbelievably turned on. He arches up, his arousal no longer ill-timed, but Wade digs his fingers into Peter’s waist and presses him back down against the couch. A little moan escapes him at the display of strength, and Wade practically whines in response.

“Webs, Petey,” Wade says, sounding desperate. “ _Me?_ Of all the people to dream of?”

“It wasn’t the first time,” Peter says, because it’s true, and because he wants Wade on top of him _now_.

Wade makes this small, desperate sound, and one hand slides back down to Peter’s thigh, squeezing again. His thumb is terribly close to Peter’s crotch, and he just wants him to close the distance, to do something, anything.

“It was right here,” Peter continues, because he can see what he’s doing — he’s taking Wade apart. Any minute now, Wade will crack, and he’ll kiss him, and if the gods are good, he’ll shove his hand down Peter’s pants as soon as humanly (mutantly?) possibly. “I was laying on the couch and you climbed in through the window and you—" he cuts himself off, because it’s embarrassing. Because he didn’t think this through.

“What, baby boy?” Wade presses. He leans forward, and his hand slides up, and he’s cupping the crevice of Peter’s thigh, his fingers curled underneath while the back of his hand presses against Peter’s cock. Peter presses against it, shuddering.

“You sucked me off,” he blurts. “But you — you couldn’t do it right. I couldn’t come.”

“I promise you I can do it right,” Wade says, and his voice sounds darker. His pupils are blown, and he presses his hand against Peter again — he knows what he’s doing. “It’s you who was doing it wrong. Humping against the couch, all disjointed. No rhythm.”

“Stop,” Peter gasps. “Embarrassing.”

“It’s adorable,” Wade corrects. “I dream about you too, you know. I wonder if you sound as pretty in real life.”

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter says, desperate, and that’s all it takes.

Wade surges forward, his hand leaving Peter’s thigh, but it’s worth it. His mouth is on Peter’s and his hands are cupping Peter’s face, holding him still as he devours his mouth.

He’s more experienced than Peter. Not just because he’s older, because he isn’t _that much_ older. But when he was Peter’s age, he definitely got around a lot — he’s said so. He’d almost never leave a bar without someone on his arm, meanwhile Peter feels embarrassed just talking to strangers and he spends most of his free time in a spandex suit anyway.

But Wade kisses like he knows what he’s doing. Like he’s desperate for Peter, and it’s all Peter can do to give as good as he’s getting, to grip Wade by the head and shoulder and arch into him and — oh.

“Fuck,” Peter gasps. “You’re hard.”

“‘Course I am,” Wade murmurs against his mouth. He shimmies down, and then his lips are attached to Peter’s neck, and Peter can’t breathe, is it hot in here? “It’s _you_.”

“Fuck,” Peter says, and his knees are up on either side of Wade, now, locking him in. “That’s my line.”

Wade stops what he’s doing, and maybe Peter should stop talking, because he doesn’t want Wade to stop _ever_. “You kidding me? I never even thought you were interested.”

Peter scoffs, and Wade grinds against him just because he can, Peter thinks. Just to see his eyes flutter shut, to make him trip over his words. “Think about it,” Peter says.

“Oh, I have,” Wade says, grinning.

Peter forges on. “You’re, like, _you_ ,” he says. “I’m just a nerd who happens to be Spider-Man.”

“Jesus,” Wade says. “You’re the hot one here, you know that, right?”

“Wade,” Peter starts, because he could argue with Wade for hours, and they’ve definitely done so before — and about stupid, pointless things — but Wade finds new and exciting ways to shut Peter up. He shoves his shirt to his chin, his hand pinching his nipple almost carelessly, and then he slides even further down the couch. His legs are up, kicking childishly through the air, and yet he’s sitting between Peter’s legs with his fingers hooked into Peter’s waistband.

“I promise I do it good in real life,” Wade says earnestly. “Let me prove your subconscious wrong?”

“Please,” Peter says, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and then his pants are gone, shucked halfway down his thighs.

Wade sucks his cock like it’s his job.

He spits in his hand, which Peter would be way too embarrassed to do himself, and when he touches Peter the world lights up, but only because Peter’s squeezing his eyes closed hard enough to make it do so. Then there’s something hot and warm at the tip, and that hot and warm something slides down and down and _down_ …

“Fuck!” Peter says, because holy _shit_. He’s never felt anything like this before — no one’s ever been able to — and that _far_.

Wade hums around him, because even with his mouth full he’s always wanting to talk, and Peter almost sobs. There’s no way he can last long, and it’s going to be embarrassing, and he doesn’t even care.

Not even thirty seconds passes like that, with Wade moving over him and Peter crumbling apart as he writhes on the couch. He studies Wade’s ceiling like he never has before, counting the cracks in it, observing the old water stains — anything to keep from coming.

And then Wade pops off of him, and Peter arches his hips automatically.

“Got an idea,” Wade says. He doesn’t even sound hoarse. What the fuck.

“‘Kay,” Peter says, breathless, and then Wade’s maneuvering them. He knows Wade’s athletic. That he can be graceful. He’s seen him flip off roofs and twist through the air, firing bullets at enemies. But never has anything turned him on as much as watching Wade push himself up with one hand, balance, and slide back under Peter, now laying on his back.

His head’s against the opposite armrest, his hips directly under Peter’s, and Peter wonders if he wants him to just start grinding on him. He feels guilty, suddenly, because he hasn’t even touched Wade yet.

“Come here,” Wade says, gesturing, and Peter shuffles closer on his knees, feeling trepidation and embarrassment the whole way. He ends up collapsing on his side and kicking his pants the rest of the way off, because somehow it feels more embarrassing to have them halfway on than not on at all.

After that, he shifts back to his knees. He’s straddling Wade’s chest now, his cock indecently in front of Wade’s face, and he’s leaning back slightly, trying to be polite.

“Closer,” Wade says.

Peter sighs, and he shuffles closer. His knees are almost touching Wade’s armpits.

“Aaaand,” Wade says, grabbing Peter’s hips and pulling him even closer. His cock presses against Wade’s mouth, and Peter jerks automatically. “Perfect,” Wade says against him.

“Oh God,” Peter says, because fuck. This position — Wade can’t do much like this. He’s going to — he’ll want Peter to…

“Thanks, but I go by Wade,” Wade says. He’s still talking against the head of Peter’s cock. “Or Mr. Wilson if you’re nasty. Most call me Deadpool. I’m also, you know. The Merc with the Mouth.” His lips wrap around the head of Peter’s cock, and Peter gasps, his hands coming down and landing on the side table just behind Wade’s head. He’s on all fours above him, his cock in Wade’s mouth, and everything in his body is screaming at him to thrust.

Peter’s arms are shaking just from the effort of holding himself back.

“Mmm,” Wade hums around him, and this time Peter does sob. He thrusts forward, hitting the roof of Wade’s mouth, and immediately feels guilty about it. As he’s pulling back, Wade’s hands come up and land on his ass. They squeeze once, appreciative, before pulling him back in, deeper this time.

“Wade, fucking shit,” Peter gasps, and then he’s doing it on his own. He can’t not. It’s the dirtiest thing he’s ever done by far, but it feels so good, and Wade’s humming happily underneath him. Peter feels his hand snake between his own legs, and he can feel Wade’s arm moving against the inside of his thigh. It’s not hard to imagine what he’s doing back there, and Peter wants to watch, but he can’t. He can’t imagine how much effort it would take to stop doing exactly what he’s doing, to sit up and turn around…

He’s not going to last much longer. He can feel Wade jerking off underneath him, and his mouth is so _hot_ , so _good_ around him. This is better than anything he’s ever done, _by far_ , and it’s only the first thing they’ve ever done together.

“Wade,” Peter pants. “I’m going to come soon. Where should I…?”

Wade hums, and Peter jerks forward with a moan. “Can’t — I can’t understand you. I’m gonna pull out—"

Wade’s free hand is back on his ass, and he’s pushing Peter in deep, rough, and Peter chokes out a moan. Just like that, he’s coming. His body is shaking, his cock twitching in Wade’s mouth, Wade’s tongue laving against the underside of it.

Peter’s elbows are planted on the table and he can’t remember when that happened. He’s still moaning, still thrusting weakly, and Wade’s humming happily around him. It becomes too sensitive and Peter pulls out, Wade lapping at him as he does.

“Damn, Webs,” Deadpool says, and Peter flushes. “Yeah,” Wade says smugly. “Very fitting for the situation.”

“Oh my God,” Peter says weakly. He turns to look over his shoulder, and there’s Wade’s cock. Scarred just like the rest of him, and _huge_. He turns back, blushing. “Should I…?”

“No,” Wade says, shaking his head. “Just stay right where you are. Perfect like this…” he murmurs.

Somehow, that’s almost more embarrassing, but Peter complies. He even drags his shirt back up to his chin, and Wade moans below him, his free hand coming back up to grip Peter’s thigh.

“Pinch,” he pants, staring at Peter desperately. “Pinch—"

Peter reaches up and pinches his nipple, and Wade’s mouth falls open. He moans, and his eyes close, and something wet hits the back of Peter’s thigh. Peter did nothing, and yet he feels oddly proud of himself.

When Wade opens his eyes again, he grins.

“You,” he says. Stops. Still grinning. “You are the best thing I’ve _ever_ come home to.”

“You come home to me a lot,” Peter says. He sits backward, forgetting Wade just came, and feels the evidence all against his ass. Wade moans weakly.

“Yeah, and it’s always the best,” he says. “Jesus, Pete, you’re sitting in my spunk.”

“Definitely gonna have to shower,” Peter says in agreement.

“Together,” Wade adds immediately. “Eat you out. Or fuck you. Or hold you close and wash your hair and kiss your nose.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but his chest feels light and fluttery and he’s over all very _fond_.

“And then let’s order Chinese.”

“Yes,” Wade agrees fervently. “Build energy for round two.”

“And then you can take me out on a date.”

“I knew you were the smart one in this relationship,” Wade says. He’s gripping Peter’s waist again. “I swear if I wake up in ten minutes and realize I was actually killed on the job and this was all a dream…” he frowns. “ _So_ many people are gonna get unalived.”

“Wasn’t a dream,” Peter promises. “Also, I’m sleeping over.”

“In my bed,” Wade adds. “Covered in my spunk!”

“I’m definitely showering first,” Peter says, and then he gets up. He’s already halfway to the bathroom when he turns around to raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t you have a laundry list of things you wanted to do to me in there?”

Wade follows him, tripping and stumbling out of his clothes. He stops before Peter and grabs his face lightly. “I’m washing your hair and kissing your nose,” he decides. And then he presses a chaste kiss to Peter’s lips, his hands falling down to wrap around Peter’s back.

Thankfully, neither of the wake up from a totally amazing and unbelievable dream that night. The totally amazing and unbelievable dream is real.


End file.
